


Bruise Blue

by victimcomplex



Category: Portal 2
Genre: Android Wheatley, F/M, and also chell is pretty fucked up and theres some stuff up with wheatley too, and needles, drug use i guess, kinda graphic mentions of violence, theres some like, this is probably gonna be sad heads up folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victimcomplex/pseuds/victimcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she’s flesh and blood and a voice like sandpaper and bruise coloured eyes and all the things you’ve ever known, because this hospital bed is your whole life and she is nearly everything in your range of vision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruise Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ccuddlefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccuddlefish/gifts).



> hey all, this is my first ever fanfiction for portal and it's a bit out of character and i am sorry! this is gonna have actual shippy stuff but for now it's mostly just me writing vaguely prose-y stuff about things, and like,,, yeah that's all i got  
> stick around if you want i guess, it's gonna be a bumpy ride

She’s waking up. You hate it when they wake up, it always means trouble. It means sedatives and screaming and the dissonant hum of old machinery in your ears. Her pale arms stretch once towards the ceiling before folding back down onto her frail chest. And then those eyes blink once, twice, a frail blue like bruises. The corners of her eyes are worn down, like the once chiseled lines by her pallid lips. She gasps in a breath that rattles and shakes, snakelike, through her lips, and then the screaming begins. It’s a high screech that doesn’t die for what seems like ages and if you were in possession of a body with functioning limbs you would try to cover your ears but you can’t get your arms to move, and really, who’s surprised? You look at your arms stretched out before you, patches of near translucent skin intercrossed with sheet metal and thin blue wires. You can’t feel your arms. You can’t feel anything except the thud thud thud of your own heart and a dull ache behind your eyes. 

And then the screaming dies down to bitter wailing and god, you can’t stand it, you want the noise to stop. The doctors come bustling in, white coats swirling around thin legs and you can’t help but be reminded of ghosts. All of a sudden, there’s another peak in the screaming, it’s grinding against your ears, her voice is in your head and it feels like sandpaper. But the screaming stops. It always stops. Your head feels empty like it usually does, the tense electric feeling in your bones dies down. And then it’s the hum of the IV and if you flick your eyes a little to the left you can see her, just sort of, being pumped full of drugs to make her feel empty like you.

But you’re a tin can, and she’s flesh and blood and a voice like sandpaper and bruise coloured eyes and all the things you’ve ever known, because this hospital bed is your whole life and she is nearly everything in your range of vision. And sure, there’s five feet of space between you and her but you make-believe you can hear her heartbeat past the beep of machines. You want to see more than her sheet white skin and a face that’s painted with the kind of shadows that only something like hell could give her. They say she went insane. They say she just snapped one day. All she could do was scream her throat dry. She’s been here for years. You’ve been here longer, though. A regular hospital veteran, useless and disembodied and almost dehumanized by your own thoughts. 

You get a sick feeling in your throat when you realize that you’re never going anywhere, literally. You have metal legs and bones that creak and eyes that see everything they can and learn nothing. You wish they had never tried to fix you, because you were a failed experiment from the start and you don’t think they could have condemned you to worse. They always look so sorry when they see you, the doctors. Sorry for you? Well you’ve got a blue sky you can see through the window if they face you the right way, and you have the silhouette of the girl’s shoulders as they rise and fall unsteady with the effort of breathing, and you have those bruise blue eyes and the screaming that makes you feel alive. And it’s not enough for you, but their apologies don’t make it better. Nothing makes it better, because being a walking corpse rebuilt with scrap metal isn’t anything that anyone can apologize for. 

You close your eyes. You want to sleep. You want them to fill you with sedatives. You want them to put you to sleep forever. You want to stop thinking like you’re thinking because it’s all you can do and none of your thoughts make sense except for her. You’re obsessed with her because she’s built as wrong as you are, because she’s beautiful for being so not beautiful, because she’s like a connect the dots picture that someone connected all wrong, so the lines in her face went crooked and her mouth is warped into a curve. You want to kiss her warped skin but she can’t make the unfeelingness go away, your heart beats but that doesn’t always equal living. Your heart only beats for her, because you think maybe she could need you like no one else does, because she is the only person you see every single moment that your eyes stay open and she is what you see behind your eyelids, too. She is the whisper voice in your head that runs a repeat track of hush, hush, hush, like trees in the wind that bend and creak but never break. 

Her screams are like sandpaper symphonies, making your blood sear and burn and the rusted out bits of your ribcage ring a discordant note of vibration. You feel filled up to the brim, like the frost in your lungs and your fingertips is melting away to spring time. She moves in her hospital bed, soft shoulder spilling from her gown like a secret and if you could touch her you don’t think you would. She is the only god you’ve ever known that was something to believe in, and you are so in love with her in the way that you can only love someone that you’ve made up in your head. 

Your head is going fuzzy again. The doctors are hovering over you but you can’t see their faces, just the white white white of their coats and a tube that coils around your wrist and suddenly you’re floating up to reach the ceiling and you wonder if this is what dying feels like. Everything goes black and your brain stops working and then you think you understand what it’s like to be a candle after the wax has melted away.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not even sorry about this literally i'm not at all


End file.
